Deviance
by Lady Nightspike
Summary: "Shepard's hands shake. Normally so steady and reliable, they feel—as if on their own conscience—conflicted about turning on an ally." New update to my eventual Shep/Garrus romance! location: Virmire please r/r!
1. Deviance

_Deviance_

Yup, shouldn't be doing this. Blah. Need to work on ongoing projects. There might be more, too, at the very least a follow-up from Garrus' perspective.

I'm just waaaay too excited for ME2. Which I don't own. Nor do I own ME1, considering that I spent all of it eyeing Liara and Kaidan and Ashley and being like, "Forget this; why can't I romance the Turian????" [I don't know what it is, but female avatars consistently get screwed, wanting to romance the unromanceable NPCs.]

And there is way not enough Shep/Garrus fics.

**ETA**: Deviance is both the title of this part, and of the whole story. There will be more forthcoming!

* * *

It was in the air, she noted.

There was Liara, _again_, flirting with Joker as she mined him for information—or rather, misinformation—that Joker would later disclose to her over a good G&T, _walking_ to warn her about the pervy alien who thought that just because she had freckles and pretty blue eyes, everything was permissible. The closer to human she looked, the more alarms she set off. 'Researching', she called it. On anyone else it would have just been…desperate.

There—imperceptibly—was Alenko. His presence barely registered on her mind, not because of any lack of personality, but because he hovered on the edges of her sphere of perception, tapping his toe just over the edge. One day ago Ashley—ruthless, competent, girly?—had brought her the finest piece of gossip: word belowdecks was that a certain Lieutenant had a 'thing' for a certain Commander of his…a Commander with 'startlingly lovely gray eyes', as he had so drunkenly admitted after Noveria. She supposed (and Ashley agreed) that Kaiden, besides being her subordinate officer _and_ fellow crewmate, would be so full of issues that what she would take to be like peeling an onion (strip, fondle, cry) would really be like halving fractions: divide and conquer, divide and conquer, never win.

Of course, hidden in that semi-flushed admission was the celebration of yesterday and she had caught what Ashley had tried so desperately to conceal—a wayward heartbeat, a downward glance too long, an earnest catching of her eyes—a too-high laugh. Tracing out the circles, akin to the hunting stalks of a lioness, she had seen the spiraling of desire in Williams' actions. Whether she would support or crush those dreams, she supposed, would make her a certain type of commanding officer.

Even, ironically, Tali—whose air could never be his, whose life could never be unfolded to a human—and her chief engineer had paced and pranced and posed. Adams was too old; he was too military; he was too human. But, she observed, a poetic part of him wanted to float out into the galaxy with Tali—to hold her mind in his aging hands, before passing it on to someone more suitable. Tali, awestruck, learning, admiring, clearly had the better lot. To have that knowledge at her girlish disposal, like a compendium begging to be used…she supposed it was rather like her own relationship with the captain: a consort wrapped in prudish robes. Modesty—assumed, depended upon—was courtesy and convention. It did not always hide the sensuous flesh underneath.

But so too worked the whole world, relying on norms that concealed dominance and subordination, and the vestiges of rebellion that shook them all. And so, too, worked she—

—sitting, almost despairingly, in the tinted sanctuary of the Mako: gazing out on a view of another, most spectacular, world. The fulcrums of that world were well-formed and adept as it turned, and its shape was pleasing, utile. Its echoes were the raw rasp of steel mixed with the plaintive whisper of a lover's breath, and its surface was a beautiful feature of tan and blue and black. She sat there, eyes half-closed, not daring a sound lest he investigate—for how pathetic would it be, for him to find her like this?

To remind herself, she turned her head toward the left side window. There, there was a wall of metal, much closer to her, much more suitable. She gazed at it often, to remind herself of all the reasons—species, anatomy, military, political, personal—why what seen on the right side was impossible. Even though he was so close to her that whatever activity he engaged in seemed almost appallingly intimate, that—and no further—was as close as they would come. She turned her head back to the left: this, here, this was her essence. She was the commander of this ship, the helmsman of a crazy attempt to save the galaxy; she was the walls and the airlock and the engine. _She_ was the demure gauze holding together this pulsating, fleshy animal.

There, on the right, was a world unto itself. A world to which she was as impotent as Wrex, as though she was a dying helmsman of a dying breed. She laughed softly at that: perhaps she was its leader, the wanton renegade like an Old West hero, with a speckled crew of sinners and revolutionaries. The leader of a band of deviants, straining in all ways against every custom—social, societal, military, political, taxonomical. Reviling the order-in-annihilation which Saren and the Reapers sought to impose, even more stringent than that of the Citadel. Revolting against a Reaper named Sovereign, whose very name implied Order and Obedience.

They, her mixed-race crew, on a hybrid ship in a special position, were the axioms of Chaos—those things which, by their very nature, flung themselves out into the worlds and demanded that others _choose_.

And here she was, caught between the cool metal she leaned against, she relied upon, and the promise of another world. In that curious relationship that instants and instances always have to continuity, she'd bargained him out of the Citadel, saved him from extinction in the uniform of C-Sec. Suddenly she'd saved him from the cruel, orderly impressions of his father—given him choices, given him himself. But he always chose to give all of that back. He was the one who had saved her, again and again.

Damn him, he was the one who had polarized her.

For like any random succession of points, the sum of those points exceeded their intention. Each brief event, in dying away, had crystallized. The feelings she had for him were as continuous as they were unexpected—they made their own, sickening, _sense_.

Her eyes closed. She stared straight ahead, not willing to give into either side.

She was brought back abruptly by the thunk on the right side of the Mako. "Commander, sorry for interrupting, but Joker says we're about to land on Virmire and I need to prep the Mako."

Had he known this whole time? Ashamed, blushing, she climbed out of the vehicle. The deck was deserted, but for her—and him. She shook her head and wondered if the darkness would obscure her face. "Why don't I help you, Garrus, you've got a lot of work to do."

The veil, firmly, in place.


	2. Descent

YAY! I updated! Sorry this took so long; I had this total creative mindblock BUT...I know where i'm going now.

I'd appreciate a review. Also, I don't know whether to detail Virmire or not. It's my favorite planet and I think looking at some of the stuff: (Kirrahe's speech, Wrex's discontentment, that scary-ass confrontation with Sov, the heartbreaking decision, anything that has to do with Saren) would be awesome, but it might be an unwelcome delay (since Shep and Garrus are going to talk _after _Virmire). What do you think?

* * *

_Descent_

Garrus worried.

It was not in his face, nor in his shoulders, nor his back. The worry was in his fingertips as he beat the dashboard, as he gunned down the Geth with ambidextrous skill. The tap-tap-tap of the trigger was a repetitive meditation. Virmire's beaches and its infinite sky, potentiality actualized, were spread out like a giant chessboard of aliens versus machines. He looked at the world above and below him, the lightning storm far out at sea but coming in like the waves {beautiful, violent}. He looked at the Commander…and worried.

It was easy to see, in the solitude and darkness of the ship's 'lights-out' hours, that Shepard had her own cracks. She had talked with him briefly of her time on Torfan after they had raided the biotic commune of her former CO. There, first, he had seen them, like flashes of lightning that struck and died.

Before then, he had been obsessed with the mission. With Saren, a Turian (and even that part hurt) who had evaded him when he was in C-Sec, and, he resolved, would cease to evade him soon. Saren had _personally_ offended Garrus—standing for a type of order that Garrus hated {rigid, controlling}. Through the missions, the places that Shepard had taken him, he had come to see Saren as an order-obsessed Turian, dogmatic and unyielding. The type of Turian that his father was. The type he was terrified of becoming. Shepard had held him together then, as he learned to rejoice in his freedom. She had held them all together, her band of oddballs and aliens, as they ravaged planetfuls of Geth and touched thousands of lives. Touched most of them unwitting.

It had never occurred to him that she herself was cracked, not until that night. She had allowed him to see something that not all could see, or wanted to. In that moment, he had understood the meaning of the word 'friend'. But now the events of that night existed as a memory, and it tapped him again and again, forcing him to beat his fingers and turn his eyes away from the enemy. Shepard, for all her heroics, whether they fought in the vehicle or on foot, had disengaged from the battle. The memory of her body was enough to simulate the Commander, but her brain had withdrawn. He wondered if its internal turmoil—clear only because the angle of her head as she gunned down Geth was slightly different—was lightning's mimic.

They had reached the first gate and undergone a draining battle before he spoke. "Commander," he ventured, wondering if he could be bold after being so…{shy, evolving, tentative}...predictable for so long. The patterns of their relationship had been established in that first conversation and had spiraled on from then. "I want to ask you something."

Shepard shifted away from her dependence on the wall, nervously fingering her gun. "What is it, Garrus?"

Hesitating…suddenly, broaching the subject seemed like defacing an ancient artifact. His voice shot up half an octave with the first stroke. "Has…I mean, has something been bothering you?"

"And what evidence would you have of that?" Uncaring as a stone as he chiseled at her façade.

This was new, vague. He disliked it intensely, yet needed the ending. "Evidence?"

"You were a C-Sec inspector," Shepard reminded him. "You tell me."

The words trickled down his mandibles. Damn. As though he could prove a point about interactions, reactions, with something as simple as evidence. He imagined packaging it for her, thrusting it towards the darts of her eyes for her to open with her piercing—{inquisitive, perplexed}—gaze.

Sometimes, the only course of action for a Turian to take was to retreat.

"Nevermind," he said, incredibly thankful for Tali's shout that more Geth were headed their way. He drew his assault rifle and waited for the pounding of the shots against his chest, waited for the kickback of the gun. Down the stairs they went, heading for the Mako, as the wave of enemies overwhelmed them. Worry becoming nothing more than a faint tintinnitus in his ears.

But when it ended, when the shots ran out and his heart limped along without them—there was something there. He watched Shepard again, seeing her echoed in the environment, the sky shot through with cracks of lightning.

But it wasn't until they were on the beach, the salarians waiting, that Garrus finally grabbed Shepard, spinning her around by the arm. "Your aim is off," he stated flatly. "Your reflexes are slow, and your mind is elsewhere." The topic no longer seemed as awkward as it had once been, now that it had been breached, and he refused to let it become a giant mountain imposing itself in the background of their every conversation. If he was to commit to this, he must commit wholeheartedly.

Shepard looked as dark as the horizon: but she was looking everywhere except at Garrus' face. The universal symbol that he had struck a nerve. "I can't help it, okay?" she asked tersely. "You have no idea what…you just don't."

Those flashes of lightning in the sky echoed in her face. Garrus went to lash out with his words, and realized that she was close to tears. Imploring him, she looked at the salarians. She looked at the Mako. She looked at their team (who were all trying _not_ to look at them while still looking).

"We'll talk later," Garrus said, slipping into parade rest. The easement of his stance reflected itself in her face. "But we're going to talk."

A long, slow sigh wound out of her mouth. Expelling all the energy of the last few moments. A slow blink. "If we have to."

Garrus didn't have to say anything to convey that yes, they did.

* * *

Whee! Please R&R. Garrus needs more love.


	3. Deception

So...this just came together and here it is! I have some ideas for the next one as well. I'm not sure when I want to end it (whether, you know with ME1's ending, or in between 1 and the ship attack in 2, or somewhere beyond that). Got ideas?

If I owned, Shep/Garrus would have been _much _different in ME2. And sorry about the tense shift, but I felt the present tense was much more suited to this chapter. If it's too jarring for readers coming directly off ch.2, let me know and I'll fix it.

**Deviance**

_Deception_

Shepard's hands shake. Normally so steady and reliable, they feel—as if on their own conscience—conflicted about turning on an ally. Years of programming herself to avoid firing on her own and now the muscle memory of it stirs her stomach. "Wrex," her voice still calm, naming the krogan who had stood against an army of husks while she killed a deadly monster on Feros, the krogan who had charged Benezia on Noveria, distracting her long enough to land the killing warp, the krogan who had asked her for help in recovering the armor he still wore.

But now the krogan is just that—a krogan, and everything he had opened her eyes to about that culture had come snapping back to its origin like a fired bow: the genophage. The obsession. Everything falling apart; veils drifting off like clouds. Garrus, of all her crew, holding her accountable; Ashley and Kaiden, as if to ward off a growing attraction, to _prove _that they could still be professional, squabbling over decisions that belonged to her. {Capable; they are all better than capable, and they feel the longing that all creatures feel when they have striving in their hearts}.

All the krogan have names that allude to destruction. "Wrex," she repeats, unable to bear the impotence of it all. Of herself. Of the krogan bearing the gun, aiming it at her. She knows she can't fire; the thought of ending a life does not perturb her, but it is _Wrex's _life she is thinking of ending. A decent krogan and a good friend. Someone who has your back and does not stab it. All krogans are crazy when it comes to the genophage. A racial burden heavier than the shotguns that only they can wield.

"What is it, Shepard?" Wrex's anger stares down his gun. "What can you possibly say to me?" It is a good question, one that rings in her head like a finger tracing around the barrel of the gun. Again and again…

Her own gun shakes in reply. She puts it up; in this situation it is worse than useless and here she is, pretending to be krogan. Pretending that all problems can be answered with the snap-pop of brisk gunfire, like an arsonist who just wants to burn down the world. She throws it aside, suddenly repulsed. Destruction is not the answer.

Slowly, much more slowly than usual, and through the veil of her own pain, she winds the thread of an answer. A good, noble answer. Saren has lied to the geth, a race he did not build and did not conquer; why would he spare the krogan—Saren, a _turian_, who would hold the destiny of the krogans in his indoctrinated hands? Wrex's armor, rescued from turian scum. It is more than the plate he wears, protecting him: it is hope. Hope that the krogans will continue, that they will find their own way. Her lips construct the first syllable, no longer impotent.

A peal of thunder so loud she is deafened. Rain pouring down on them now, down on the beach and receding into the turbulent water. A second gun drops to the sand, but the color of the water is wrong—the color of blood. Shepard flies to Wrex's side, all the previous violence washed away. The wound is not quite where its target was aiming, as though the water that soaked them both had altered, minutely, the pull of the trigger. She holds him tenderly, investigating the wound. People are running to them now. It is not fatal. She closes her eyes in relief.

Behind her, now that she can think, Ashley Williams stands defiant. Their eyes meet for just an instant—just long enough for the answer, like a lightning bolt, to strike Shepard. Ashley has not dropped her gun, though she is no longer pointing it at anyone.

"Hoist him up, men!" Thankfully, the infirmary isn't far. Kirrahe turns to her, waiting for her words.

"Get him back on the ship," Shepard says, coldly. "Williams, Vakarian, you're with me. Alenko will arm the nuke." Even Alenko, with his doe-like eyes, looks at Ashley reproachfully. But consequences cannot come now. Nor does she even know what they will be. Williams is a competent gunnery chief. Williams was afraid that she didn't have the heart to pull the trigger or the tongue to disarm the krogan. Shepard is glad for the rain pouring down her face; if she cannot cry, she might as well pretend.

Garrus comes to stand beside her. Slowly, so that she can see the movement long before it happens, he lays a hand on her shoulder. "Let's see him off," he says. The hand is much warmer than she would have expected, even in the rain. Even through her numb, unfeeling skin. She turns her head to look at that hand, that trinity of fingers. It is all she can allow herself. Her right hand crosses her heart to rest for an instant on his before gently sliding both hands off her shoulder. _No more_.

They walk, as if in a funeral procession, behind the krogan and his salarian attendants. Shepard does not look at her people; she knows that Ashley was too far away to be stopped and she knows exactly what expression is on every face, every heart. Alenko broods behind her, discontent with his choices. Tali worries, her heart bursting with it, her hand in Liara's—not because of any attraction or really even friendship with the other woman, but in the comfort of knowing that Liara is still the same person she was before. Tali can never trust Williams again, despite her open smile and easily-offered friendship. Williams' eyes, dark and sharp, hold bullets.

And Garrus attends her. As she stumbles a bit in the rain, on the sand, his hand flashes out—she stumbles even more to avoid it. At the entrance to the tent, Shepard's eyes lock with his. He nods once, understanding. He will leave her alone. But more importantly, he will make sure her wishes are obeyed. His mandibles flicker with his own anguish and guilt, and she imagines him drawling, "Should have seen that one coming" with his dark, patient voice.

Wrex lays there, half-awake. The doctors are stabilizing his wound. Krogans heal fast, and soon he will be on his feet: soon, if he wishes, he will have his revenge. Fear in her heart like a startled bird. Sighing. Too much to deal with. But not now.

"Shepard," he murmurs. She has to come closer to hear him, lean in. "I…always knew it was wrong." The tension rushes out of her. "Sorry…I was stupid…"

Shepard stands. "We'll go on," she promises, holding in her voice the knowledge and the sorrow and all the rage that she will feel in Wrex's place.

She takes one long look back at the krogan and his family armor. It is dented, but it will do.

* * *

Feedback is the nectar of the gods...or rather, the ffnet writers ;-)


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